


Transmutation

by SailorChibi



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Age Play, Angst, Angst and Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baseline Q, Canon Divergence - Skyfall, Canon Typical Violence, Carrying, Competent Q (James Bond), Crying, Gen, Hugging, James Bond Takes Care of Q, Little Q, M | Olivia Mansfield Lives, M | Olivia Mansfield will not go down that easily, Movie: Skyfall (2012), Non-Consensual Body Modification, Platonic Cuddling, Protective James Bond, Q Needs a Hug (James Bond), Raoul Silva is an asshole, Severine Lives (James Bond), alternate universe - littles are known, canon character death, caregiver james bond, nappies, non sexual age play, non sexual infantilism, thumb sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28639545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: Silva didn't just kidnap Bond. He took Q too. And rather than toy with Q, Silva changed him. Now MI6's Quartermaster is a Little trying to deal with a very big world...
Relationships: James Bond & Q
Comments: 34
Kudos: 189





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one is for an anon who wanted an AU to Skyfall where Severine survived and Silva did something a bit nefarious to Q. Poor Q, honestly. I torture him so much.

“I want to meet your employer.”

Those six words would change the life of not only James Bond, but many others. He just didn’t know it at the time. He still didn’t know it as several guards marched him away from Sévérine. She watched him go with a closed-off, unreadable expression. Perhaps she felt guilty. The thought amused James, and he inwardly shook his head at himself. After all these years, he knew better.

He cooperated with the guards, willing to allow them to manhandle him for the time being, and summarily found himself in a large room filled with computer servers. The guards tied him to a chair with thick, coarse rope. James tugged at the bonds a few times, curious, but was reluctantly forced to admit that the men who had tied him had known what they were doing. The ropes wouldn’t be coming undone easily.

“Why hello there, James! How do you like my island?” Raoul Silva sauntered into the room, smiling the sort of smile that would make many people intensely uncomfortable because his eyes remained flat. James tilted his head back but said nothing.

He remained quiet while Silva made his little speech about rats: it didn’t seem like the sort of thing that should be interrupted, and it was an intriguing glimpse into Silva’s nature – and his obsession with M. James kept his face blank as Silva came to a stop in front of him. Silva stood there for a moment, rocking back and forth on his heels, looking down at James.

Then he said, “The two survivors, that’s what _she_ made us. Feasting on each other. But you know, we’re old hat. We’re not _interesting_. She can only do so much with us, after all. She needs fresh blood.”

“I made my own choices,” James said slowly, a little unsettled by the sudden change in direction. This wasn’t what he was expecting, and he wasn’t sure where Silva was going with this. He didn’t like that. 

“You’re still clinging to your faith in that old woman when all she’s done is lie to you. To you, and to everyone else,” Silva said, sneering. 

“She’s never lied to me,” said James, knowing even as he spoke that he was lying through his teeth. Of course M had lied. It was what she did. But he wasn’t going to admit that to Silva.

“Oh really?” Silva smiled again and walked over to one of the computers. He called up James’s MI6 profile with concerning ease and proceeded to read off the results of James’s medical and psychological evaluations. James struggled not to react, unwilling to admit that it hurt his pride to know that most of MI6 seemed to think he was washed up.

This was going somewhere, building to something, but he couldn’t figure out what.

“You see, we’re both of us trapped in her web. Helpless flies, bumbling around into each other, thinking that we have a say in what happens, never once realizing that the spider has built the web and is dictating our every move,” Silva said softly, pushing away from the computer. “So, I decided to get ahead of the game, for once. What kind of web can a spider build when one of her supports is… torn away?”

He stood and walked out of sight, which made James tense. There was a weird scraping sound, like Silva was dragging something heavy. James’s first thought was that there was some kind of weapon coming, but instead, when Silva came around the computer, he was dragging – a box? No, a container. A heavy steel container, about six feet long and two or three feet wide. The only reason Silva could move it was that it seemed to be on four small wheels.

Silva pushed the container right up in front of James, smiled again, and pulled the top up.

James’s blood ran cold.

The dazed, semi-conscious face of MI6’s new Quartermaster was looking up at them. He was naked but for the ropes that bound his hands behind his back and his ankles together and the lurid bruising that covered much of his body. The reason for said bruises rapidly became clear when Silva reached down and grabbed Q’s upper arms, yanking Q out of the container like a sack of bricks.

“We are what we are, you know, but we can be changed,” Silva said casually, dropping Q on the ground. “Nothing ever stays the same. It’s a bit fun to throw a wrench in the cog, don’t you think? Or…” He flashed another empty smile. “To put a knife in the web.” He pulled something from his pocket.

A needle.

“No!” James shouted before he could stop himself, jerking against the ropes. 

Silva laughed at him and stooped, plunging the needle deep into Q’s arm. Q cried out, and the sound was like a punch to James’s chest. He ground his teeth together, clenching his hands into fists so tightly that it hurt as Silva depressed the plunger and injected Q with the yellowish green liquid inside the needle. A thin spasm ran through Q’s body before he convulsed, his head snapping back against the floor hard enough to hurt – though James doubted that Q could feel anything right now.

“I can’t wait to see what the old spider thinks of her web now,” Silva said, excitement gleaming in his eyes. 

“What the hell did you do?” James said, struggling to keep himself contained.

“Just an experiment. A few things I’ve had some old friends working on. We needed a lab _rat_ and who better?” Silva smirked and nudged his boot against Q’s body. Q had gone limp now, eyes shut. The only sign he was still alive was the slight movement of his chest.

“Why didn’t you use me instead?” James demanded.

“Oh, now that would be fun…” Silva mused. But he shook his head. “As much fun as it sounds to leave you totally dependent on others, I don’t think it would work with your particular brain chemistry. You’re already _something_. I can’t change a _something_ into another _something_. I had to start with a _nothing_. Luckily, _she_ favours _nothings_.” He nudged Q again, but harder this time. Hard enough to slide Q’s body a few inches to the side.

“Who knows if he’ll survive?” Silva went on. “Let’s go have some fun and leave him here to… stew.” He chuckled like he’d made a clever joke and nodded at someone James couldn’t see. Within moments, several guards descended on James and literally carried his chair out of the room.

James’s last glimpse of MI6’s Quartermaster was of seeing Q curled in an unconscious, forgotten heap. As hard as it was to leave Q there, he had to hope that Q would be alright until he came back.

Silva led him out to where Sévérine was waiting, bloody and beaten and tied to a statue. He was untied, and had just enough time to put a hand in his pocket and switch on the little radio Q had given him what felt like months ago. And then James took the gun, and took in the situation, and very carefully contemplated his rather considerable list of things that now needed to be done – and then he shot the gun out of Silva’s hand. The look of astonishment on Silva’s face was actually pretty satisfying until a bunch of guards descended on him.

It wasn’t easy, but James had faced worse odds and come out on top. At some point during the fight, he was able to free Sévérine, and she turned out to be positively feral. She may have killed just as many guards as James did. So, James didn’t feel too uncertain about pointing the gun in Silva’s direction once all the guards had been taken care of. Sévérine stood back, panting quietly.

“You’re not the only one who is clever,” James called out as the helicopters appeared overhead. He would have enjoyed the infuriated look on Silva’s face more had he not been preoccupied with thoughts of Q.

The first of the helicopters landed, and several agents spilled out. James waited just long enough to be sure that Silva and Sévérine were both well in hand before he tucked the gun into his waistband and took off back towards the building. He quickly retraced their steps and found his way back to the room with all of the computers – and there was Q, still unconscious on the floor.

“Q? Q!” James said, rushing over to him. He knelt down, hesitating momentarily. With no way of knowing what Q had been injected with, it might not be safe to move him. Yet at the same time, he didn’t think Q’s dignity would survive being found in this state. Uncertain, he gently laid a hand on Q’s arm.

Q’s eyelashes fluttered and he whimpered, a pitiful sound that tugged at James’s heart. “No more,” Q begged, trying to pull away.

Normally James was pretty decent at keeping his caregiver instincts under control, but right then every instinct lit up like a firework. The urge to bundle Q up and take him somewhere _safe_ was so powerful that James had to steady himself against the nearest desk with his free hand. He gritted his teeth against the impact, trying to push some of the ride back. 

“Q, it’s me. 007,” he said, figuring that Q was more likely to recognize his agent title than his name. “I’ve dealt with Silva. You’re okay now. MI6 agents are right outside. You’re safe.”

“007?” Q whispered, like he wasn’t really sure what the numbers meant, and this time all James felt was a surge of concern. They had only encountered each other briefly, but that had been more than enough time for James to realize that Q was smart. Scarily smart. Just what had Silva given him?

“Yes, that’s right,” James said, keeping his voice calm. That wasn’t something that Q needed to worry about now. They needed to get out of here first and get Q some help.

“My glasses…” Q mumbled.

“I don’t know where they are,” James said, glancing around. When he stood up, he could see that the box Q had been in was otherwise empty. Most likely Q’s glasses and clothing had been tossed out. 

He quickly shucked off his suit jacket and knelt down again. Q was trying to sit up, letting out soft gasps of pain combined with bitten off whimpers. It made James’s heart ache in ways that he hadn’t felt in years. He kept the emotions off his face with effort and shuffled closer, draping the jacket around Q’s shoulders. Q flinched at first, but then seemed to realize what James was trying to do.

“Thanks,” he said, very quietly, wincing as he tried to push his arms through the sleeves. James gently grabbed first Q’s right hand and then his left hand, guiding Q’s arms into the sleeves. The suit jacket was far too big, threatening to slide off Q’s shoulders, but the hem was long enough to give Q some modesty once it was buttoned up.

“Are you okay? You probably shouldn’t move more than you have,” said James, watching him closely. Some of the colour had come back into Q’s face. He looked a little more aware and alert now that he was moving around.

“It hurts to move, but I don’t feel anything else,” Q said. “And it only hurts to move because…” He trailed off, but James was perfectly capable of filling in the blankets. It hurt because every time Silva had injected Q – and how many times had he done that? – Q had gone into convulsions, which would have strained his muscles.

“Right. Well, I’ll get some agents in here.” James started to get up, but Q grabbed at his shirt.

“No! Don’t go. I can’t see,” he said, sounding so panicked that James instantly froze. Q’s eyes, fuzzy and unfocused, stared up at him, and he couldn’t bring himself to go.

“Okay. Okay, come on. I’ll help you stand up, and we’ll go together,” James said soothingly, putting his hand over Q’s. “I won’t leave you, Q, I promise.”


	2. Chapter 2

Q might have lied to 007. Just a little bit. The truth was that he felt _awful_. His stomach was rolling so violently that it was a miracle he didn’t vomit the instant he was up on two legs. He had a terrible headache, and having to constantly squint to try and make out anything was not helping. And he kept flashing back and forth between hot and cold, like his body had lost its ability to regulate his temperature.

Silva’s concoction had definitely done _something_. He had injected Q five times, and each time had hurt worse than the last. But Q did not share that information with Bond. Rather, he allowed Bond to help him to the door and outside. There was a terrifying moment during which all Q saw was a bunch of blurry, black-suited shapes rushing before Bond leaned in closer.

“It’s just MI6, Q. They’re evacuating the island and rounding up prisoners,” he murmured, the words meant for Q’s ears alone.

“Right,” Q said, hoping that he didn’t sound as breathless as he felt. He hated himself for leaning more heavily against Bond. He had the most uncomfortable desire to bury himself into Bond’s chest and hide away from the world, and he wasn’t so sure that Bond would stop him if he tried to do it. 

“This way. Be careful. The ground is…” Bond paused. “Well, there’s glass, bullets, and blood all over the place. Would you be opposed to be carrying you?”

“Yes,” Q said flatly, though he could see – ha! – where the suggestion had come from given that he _couldn’t_ see a bloody thing. The only thing that could possibly make this whole situation worse would be if he were to cut his feet on something and either end up with an infection, or step in someone’s blood and end up getting sick.

“Is that a no?” Bond asked, and Q sighed.

“Fine,” he muttered, unwilling to admit even to himself just how much he wanted Bond to carry him. He turned slightly, still unprepared for the moment when Bond bent, slid one arm beneath Q’s knees and the other around Q’s back, and lifted with unfair ease. There was an unsettling few seconds where the world swam until Q readjusted to the sudden change in height.

“There you are, it’s alright,” Bond said softly, probably able to tell how tense Q was, and Q forced himself to relax.

“Let’s just go. Quickly,” he said thickly. 

“Of course.” Bond started walking, and the distinct crunch of his footsteps from the generally soundless agent told Q that Bond hadn’t been lying about the state of the ground. That, at least, was somewhat comforting. 

He found himself grateful that it was Bond who had found him and not another MI6 agent. Though he didn’t know Bond well, at least they had met before. And it turned out that Bond’s arms were strong and solid. Q might have been skinny, but he wasn’t light. Despite that, he never once felt like Bond might drop him as Bond walked towards the large black shapes that Q assumed were helicopters.

The urge to lay his head on Bond’s shoulder and closed his eyes swept over Q so suddenly that he jolted a bit. Bond must have thought it was due to something he’d done, because he cursed and muttered an apology. Q was too rattled to acknowledge the apology, wondering where on earth that urge had come from. He was no one’s damsel in distress, damn it!

Needing a distraction, he said, “I wouldn’t have expected you could carry me so easily, given your wound.”

“I’m a Caregiver. I’m stronger than most,” Bond replied. 

“Oh, right,” Q said as though that was brand new information, even though he’d already known that: M had given him a copy of all the 00-agent files before he even began. He’d been a bit puzzled at first as to why she seemed to favour Caregivers for 00-agents, but now he understood. The increased endurance, strength, and reflexes inherent to Caregivers would certainly be attractive features.

“I have the Quartermaster!” Bond called out suddenly, and the next thing Q knew he was being besieged by voices. He shrank back against Bond before he could stop himself, squinting painfully at the unpleasant smear of faces surrounding them.

“Alright! That’s enough!” a female voice said sternly. “As the field doctor here, I’ll be taking our Quartermaster back to the helicopter for a check-up. _Move aside_.”

The crowd of faces parted, and Bond carried Q through. Q didn’t breathe again until they were on the helicopter, and he was being laid down on what was unmistakably a portable hospital bed of some kind. Bond straightened up again – and then started to leave. Q’s body acted of its own accord: his hand shot out and he grabbed onto Bond’s shirt, tugging desperately at the fabric.

You promised you wouldn’t leave. Q bit the words back just in time. Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t have his glasses, because it meant he couldn’t see what was almost certainly a look of pity on Bond’s face. He forced himself to let to go of Bond’s shirt and pull his hand back. Their jobs came before everything else. Q might have been new to MI6, but he knew that. Now that Bond knew that Q was safe, he had to go make sure that Silva was properly taken care of.

“I’ll be back,” Bond said at last. He paused for another few seconds, like there was something else he wanted to say, but nothing else was forthcoming. Eventually, he left.

“Quartermaster, my name is Emily. Can you tell me what your prescription is?” That same voice as before spoke to Q’s right, and he turned his head to squint at her. He couldn’t really make out any details beyond a white outfit and dark hair.

He told her his glasses prescription and watched as the fuzzy blob turned away. A moment later, she came back and handed him something. Glasses. Q quickly lifted them to his face and slipped on. He could tell immediately that they weren’t perfect, but they were a damn sight better than not being able to see anything at all. It was enough that he could see the doctor had shoulder-length dark hair and wore purple glasses herself.

“I know they’re not perfect, but it’s the closest thing I have,” Emily said apologetically. 

“They’re perfect,” Q said, pathetically grateful, and she smiled sympathetically.

“Now, sit back and let me examine you,” she said, turning brisk in an instant. The unfamiliar glasses weren’t helping Q’s headache, so rather than protest he just sat back against the bed and let her do what she wanted. She checked him over thoroughly, clearly looking for broken bones and other similar trauma or evidence of rape. Thank god, there was none of that to find.

“He didn’t do anything. Just roughed me up a bit,” Q lied, and she looked up at him from where she was prodding at a spectacularly large bruise on Q’s right calf.

“Are you sure?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. 

“Yes. He was just – he took me for leverage against Bond, I think,” said Q, which wasn’t _totally_ a lie. The box he’d been locked in was not soundproof, so he’d heard bits and pieces of Silva’s ranting. It was probably more accurate to say that he’d been taken as leverage against M, but he doubted that Bond would say anything, and he wasn’t going to admit to that himself.

Nor did he plan to tell anyone just what, exactly, Silva had done. He just knew that Medical would freak out, and they’d want to run all kinds of tests on him. He would definitely be taken out of commission until they had figured out what had been injected into him. Q didn’t want that to happen. There would be plenty of time to figure it out after Silva was dealt with, Q told himself. 

She still looked slightly sceptical but seemed willing to take him at his word. “Alright. You don’t have a concussion, thankfully. They’ll need to give you a more thorough examination at MI6, but… all in all, I would say that you were extremely lucky, Quartermaster.”

“Yeah, lucky,” Q said, trying not to sound as bitter as he felt. “Do you have any painkillers? I have a terrible headache.”

“I really shouldn’t give you anything until they have a chance to check you over,” she said reluctantly.

“Please? I really am okay.” Q tried to look as cute as possible, and it must have worked because she sighed and got up again. She took a pill bottle out of a nearby cabinet and shook two pills into her hands, which she gave to Q with a half glass of water. He took the pills gratefully and then, at her direction, laid back against the bed with his eyes shut.

It was probably another hour or so before he felt the helicopter come to life underneath him. Q tried not to wince, knowing that would only attract Emily’s attention. Honestly, he was at the point where he was beginning to feel ill in a way that had very little to do with Silva’s physical treatment. His headache had worsened, and his stomach was churning and his whole body throbbed from head to toe. By the time they arrived at MI6, he was fighting the urge to vomit.

Yet he still had to get up and pull on the white cotton trousers Emily handed him – it hadn’t occurred to him until just that moment that he was still dressed in just Bond’s suit jacket – and head to Medical. He was debating over how he’d stop them from taking blood samples when the summons came: Q, if he felt well enough, was to head right to Q-branch and start working on the electronics recovered from Silva’s island.

“Needs must,” Q told Emily, who looked very pinched in the face. She clearly wasn’t happy, but it wasn’t like Medical could override an order directly from M herself.

He broke away from the doctor and hastened to Q-branch as quickly as he could. It was a relief to slip into his office and lock the door. He immediately stripped off the trousers and suit jacket and replaced them with the spare clothing he kept in his office: trousers, an undershirt, a button-up shirt, and a jumper. And then he went into his desk and got out his glasses, his _own_ glasses, and sighed gratefully as he slid them on. That was better. Much better.

“Quartermaster?” R’s voice came through the door, accompanied by a knock on the door.

“Right here.” Q walked over and opened the door. R openly looked him up and down. Her mouth tightened a bit as she took in the obvious bruising which Q could not hide, but Q refused to react to that. As always, R took her cue from him and nodded.

“We have some of the stuff set up for you to look at,” she announced. “Whenever you’re ready.” And Q couldn’t help shooting her a grateful look.

“I’m ready now,” he said grimly, walking past her. He was aware of more than a few curious looks from the rest of Q-branch – because all of MI6 had been made aware that their Quartermaster had been kidnapped – but he ignored them. He was much more interested in looking through Silva’s files, because there was a chance he’d be able to find out what Silva had done to him without having to involve anyone else.

But of course, life _never_ worked out the way that Q wanted it to.

He was tired, and in pain, and still dazed from what had happened, and the fact that Bond had come in and was hanging over his shoulder didn’t help. Bond’s presence had always been strangely distracting, but it seemed to be even more so today. The concerned glances that Bond kept shooting in his direction only served to make Q feel worse, somehow. Now knowing what it was like to be in the arms of the infamous 007, he had the strangest urge to repeat the experience and it was more difficult than Q had expected to ignore both that urge and Bond himself.

But none of that was any excuse for not having realized what was happening before Silva’s system hacked right into MI6. Bond bolted after Silva while Q yanked the cables out of Silva’s computer. But it was too late. The screen of the laptop went bright red and words popped up on it. Q’s stomach flipped over for reasons that had very little to do with the hacking as he read them.

‘NOT SUCH A CLEVER BOY. JUST A LAB RAT’.


	3. Chapter 3

The hot, heavy combination of embarrassment and shame made it hard to concentrate. Q exhaled quietly through clenched teeth, trying to seem as though he wasn't as overwhelmed as he was. He could see several of his Q-branch workers looking at him out of the corner of their eyes. None of them, not even R, wanted to be the first to point out that Q had just allowed MI6 to be hacked. But they didn't need to. Q was well aware of the fact. His eyes burned and he had to gulp back the horrifying urge to start crying right there.

"Alright, all of you," he said out loud, straightening up. "We need to do damage control. R, you're in charge. I need to speak to Tanner and M." He nodded at R and then quickly walked towards the door. A low murmur sprang up behind him as he went before R's voice rose above them all as she began barking out orders. Q closed the door on that sound and just stood there for a moment, eyes closed.

He had fucked up. He'd fucked up big time. He wanted to believe that it was because of whatever Silva had injected him with, but honestly Q couldn't even be sure of that. He should have known better than to plug that bloody laptop in, but he'd thought - well, he'd thought that maybe this time they might be able to get the upper hand on Silva. Only it turned out that, as always, Silva was one step ahead of them. Now Silva was gone, and Bond had taken off after him, and the two of them were playing some game of cat-and-mouse in London's underground, and Q had lost his chance to question Silva on what those injections had done...

But not, Q realized suddenly, the chance to question someone who had worked very closely with Silva. He pressed a shaking hand to his churning midsection and made his way down to the lifts. MI6's cells were located in the lower floors. No one blinked an eye at the Quartermaster being down there, which worked in Q's favour as he walked towards where he knew his goal would be. It was in a dark, dank, empty corner of the cell floor that he found her.

Sévérine was sitting on the little bench that had been provided for her. Like all MI6 prisoners, she had been stripped of her clothing and given a simple orange jumpsuit. Her dark hair hung around her equally dark eyes, giving Q the impression that her eyes were following him no matter where he stepped. It was chilling, but he made himself stop right in front of her cell and cross his arms over his chest. Much as he wanted to believe that he was in control here, he was under no illusions that _he_ needed _her_ help.

And so, after he'd taken out his phone and swiftly disabled the video and audio cameras to her cell, he pressed the button that would allow them to communicate, looked at her, and said, "What do you know about what Silva was doing on that island?"

Sévérine gave a low laugh. "Only what he wanted me to know, plus a little more. You do hear things, after all." She straightened up slightly, flicking her hair out of her face. "What's the matter, little Quartermaster? Not feeling well?"

Q gritted his teeth. "Do you know what he did to me?"

"I can guess," said Sévérine. She openly looked him up and down. Q got the feeling that she was cataloguing him in some way. Perhaps trying to figure out what the shots had done? Or maybe trying to figure out how far along he was in whatever process that Silva had decided to start... He swallowed hard, feeling uncomfortably warm even though the air was cool.

"Care to share your educated guess?" Q said.

"What will you give me for it?" she inquired, tilting her head. "An escape?"

Q shook his head. "That would get me fired. The best I could do is make sure that any information that paints you in a kinder light gets into the right hands."

She considered that for a few seconds before sighing. "That's a pretty sad offer, but I've always been partial to babies," she mused, tapping her finger against her chin. 

A chill ran down Q's spine. She had looked directly at him when she said that. A horrible suspicion began to gnaw at the back of his mind, but - but surely that was impossible. No one could just change someone's biology like that, right? He had never heard of something like that happening, and Q made it a point to keep up on a lot of the scientific breakthroughs that occurred... but then again, it wasn't like whatever Silva had been doing was sanctioned by law. Q clenched his hands at his sides. It couldn't be true. He must've misunderstood whatever Sévérine was trying to imply.

A slow smile crossed Sévérine's face. "What's the matter, Quartermaster? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"What did he do to me?" Q said through gritted teeth.

"Given how pale you've gone, I'm sure you've guessed," she said, standing up. She approached the cell door, but Q refused to back away. There was no way she could get through: both the door and the window were heavily reinforced. Not even a 00-agent would be able to get through.

"That's impossible," Q said. His voice came out far shakier than he would have liked.

Sévérine tsked and shook her head slowly. "It's only impossible for people who follow the rules," she said, not without sympathy. "I don't know the full story behind it. Science isn't really my thing." It was her turn to cross her arms over her chest, and somehow, she looked a lot more imposing than Q felt. 

"Then what do you know?" he said, almost desperately, and she smiled again.

"What keeps a baseline from being a Little or a Caregiver isn't very much at all. A few tweaks to a gene here, a little change to a gene there, and suddenly you have something completely different from what you started with. A baseline human is a blank slate if you will. I'm afraid that Silva decided to draw on your slate," she told him. "You should consider yourself fortunate that you're not dead. I heard the first few lab rats died after the second injection."

 _Lab rats_. Q staggered back a step as though she'd slapped him.

"I'm sure he hasn't changed you into a Caregiver, so that means there's only one conclusion. And to look at you, at how close to tears you are..." She looked him up and down again and then chuckled. "Well, dear Quartermaster, if I were you, I would find myself a nappy."

"Shut up!" Q snapped, stricken.

"You can tell me to shut up, but it won't change the truth," she said in a sing-song voice, wagging her finger back and forth. "It's an irreversible process from what I understand. Biology is so unfortunate, isn't it?"

Q didn't want to hear anymore. He wrenched his hand off the button. Sévérine's lips kept moving, but he could no longer hear what she was saying and that was a blessing. What she'd said so far was enough to make him feel like he was going to vomit. If she was right, then – 

Then everything about his life was going to change.

Sévérine waved at him. She clearly wanted him to put his hand back on the button. Q wavered for a moment, wondering if maybe she had something important to say. But that seemed unlikely. She had openly admitted that she didn’t know much about what Silva had been doing. Still, it was tempting to ask her a few more questions. Perhaps she knew more than she realized.

He jumped when his phone beeped, heart thudding against his chest: the sound was so loud in the otherwise quiet corridor that it echoed. He fumbled his phone from his pocket and realized that it was a message from R. They needed him upstairs. He knew that if he didn’t go upstairs, someone would probably come looking for him. This was the last place he wanted to be found. It would only draw more attention to him, and that wasn’t what Q needed or wanted right now.

Turning his back to Sévérine, he headed back towards the lift on knees that felt a little weak. He used the time in the lift to gather himself back together, and to turn back on the cameras for the cell. Later, he’d be able to manipulate the footage so that it looked like he had never been there. In the meantime, no one was going to be looking at the cameras anyway.

He entered Q-branch to find a flurry of activity. R immediately put him on the phone with Bond. Q fell into the tasks of the Quartermaster with relief. It was so good to have something else to focus on, but it didn’t last nearly long enough. Bond was able to rescue M from Silva, getting her out in the nick of time. Then things became a little bit more complicated, and Q stepped into his private office.

“I need help,” Bond said, and Q closed his eyes.

“What do you need?” he asked.

Bond told him. The correct, professional thing to do would have been to refuse, but no sooner had the notion passed through Q’s head than he dismissed it. Bond might have just been doing his job on the island, but he had also saved Q’s life. If for nothing else, Q owed him that much. So, he threw caution to the wind, agreed to help, and hung up with the realization that he needed to make this _exceptionally_ good to fool Silva.

Because Silva needed to be able to figure out where Bond and M were going, but no one else could know.

Except for Q.

Q knew.

Of course he did. He had to know in order to lay out a trail of the right breadcrumbs. He stared at his computer with unseeing eyes for a long moment. His heart was racing again. His head ached. His stomach was churning, equal parts nausea and anxiety. There was no part of him that didn’t feel unwell. The smart thing to do would have been to do as Bond asked, and then reported directly to Medical.

But he didn’t want to. Being – no, thinking that he was the smart person had contributed to Q ending up in this situation to begin with. He always made sure to take a different route back to his flat, but that hadn’t stopped Silva from kidnapping him. He’d thought he knew what he was plugging in that laptop, but that had enabled Silva to escape. Knowing the twisted way that Silva’s mind worked, anything that Medical did to help Q might just worsen his state.

Bond had the right idea, and Q couldn’t believe he was thinking that, but it was the truth. They needed to get a step ahead of Silva. _Q_ needed to get a step ahead of Silva, and the only way he could do that was by doing something completely unexpected. He tightened his hands into fists, staring with unseeing eyes at his laptop. This wouldn’t be something that Bond expected either, but maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

“Q?” Tanner said behind him, startling Q out of his thoughts.

“Yes?” he said, turning around hastily.

Tanner frowned. “Are you well? You look dreadful. Maybe you should –”

“I’m fine,” Q said shortly. “Just – working on trying to figure out where Silva went, that’s all.”

“Oh, right. Let me know if you find anything,” Tanner said. “Things are a mess… we’re trying to find out where Bond and M went…” He walked out, muttering into his phone.

“I will,” Q said to the empty air. He took a deep breath, holding back a pained wince, and set his hands on the keys. He’d lay out a trap alright. He’d lay out the best damn trail of breadcrumbs that Silva had ever seen. It would take Silva right to Skyfall Lodge, where Bond and M would be lying in wait.

What Silva, and Bond, wouldn’t know is that Q was going to be there too.

He was no agent, but he was going to get revenge on Raoul Silva for this if it was the last thing he did.


	4. Chapter 4

The thing about all agents for MI6 was that there was always a way to find them, and M was no exception. Q’s hands shook from the cold as he made his way across admittedly more rugged terrain than he had anticipated. He shivered, shoving his hands deep into his pockets: it was dark and he could barely see, but the alternative was using a light that might catch attention. The distant sound of gunfire told him that Silva and his men were around somewhere, and Q didn’t want to get caught by them again.

He stumbled as his foot sank down suddenly and nearly went sprawling; he caught himself just in time with his hands. As the snow started to soak into the knees of his trousers, he swore softly and pushed himself up. He was tired and cold and now his ankle hurt, and he was deeply frustrated that his first instinct now seemed to be to sit down and cry about it.

He clenched his hands into fists and inhaled deeply, holding it for a moment, before he slowly exhaled. It was too dark to see, but he expected that his breath formed a cloud on the air. He couldn’t let himself slip off the deep end. As soon as Silva was dealt with, he could retreat to his flat, lock himself in, and let whatever was happening to him run its course. Then, once it was all over, he’d be able to figure out how he was going to handle it all.

But first things first. Changing biology or no, Q was _not_ going to let this chance for revenge pass. He rubbed his hands on his trousers to dry them and then drew his mobile out of his pocket. It meant sitting down in the snow that he could hide the light of screen with his knees, but that was fine. At least he was able to quickly check on where M and Bond were. His eyebrows furrowed as he realized that, contrary to what he’d seen last time he looked, the two dots representing M and Bond were no longer together.

And then there was an explosion in the distance.

Startled, Q very nearly dropped his mobile right in the snow. He looked up in astonishment as a great column of smoke and fire erupted just beyond the woods to his left. That had to be Bond’s work. The only other person who was capable of causing an explosion like that was 006, and Q knew for a fact that 006 was deep undercover in Russia right now. So that left 007 as the obvious culprit. Clearly Silva had found them and that was Bond’s retaliation.

“I won’t forgive you if you get there first, Bond,” Q mumbled, sneaking one last glance at M’s location. There was no sense in going towards Bond, given that Q had no interest in getting closer to the explosion. Besides, he thought it was more likely that Silva would be going after M.

He shoved his mobile back into his pocket and got up, shivering. His trousers were now thoroughly soaked and so was the hem of his jacket, but that didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Q gritted his teeth and pressed on, hiking deeper into the snow drifts and through the woods. It was even darker once he was amongst the trees, but Q kept on moving.

When the trees broke apart, letting him see across the fields and therefore by the light of the massive fire, Q saw the chapel. He’d lost feeling in his both his feet and hands by the time he made his way to it, and the suspiciously damp feeling to his trousers suggested that he might have lost something else as well. But it was so cold that it was difficult to tell – and again, it wasn’t like it mattered.

“Of course it would be here. Of course it would be this way. So deliciously poetic.”

Q stiffened, instinctively going still as he recognized the sound of Silva’s voice. He very slowly and carefully made his way over to the window – or at least, what had once passed for a window given that the glass was no longer there. When he looked inside, he saw M. She was all alone in the middle of the chapel, sitting on one of the pews. Her face was pale and her clothing… Q’s heart sank when he saw the blood.

And then, beyond M, he saw Silva. 

“After all, you did always like to play God,” Silva was saying as he drew nearer to M. “A chapel is so very appropriate, don’t you think?”

M merely looked at him with disdain and said nothing. Q honestly couldn’t tell if she was too weak from blood loss to speak, or if she didn’t want to give Silva the dignity of an answer. He glanced around the chapel, hoping to see 007 lurking somewhere in the dim lighting. But there didn’t seem to be anyone else there, and he realized that Bond was probably still preoccupied dealing with Silva’s men.

“You should know that you’re not the only one who likes to play God. I’ve learned from the best,” Silva said, a sneer on his face.

“What did you do?” M whispered. It was faint, but the fact that Silva’s words had garnered a response seemed to bolster Silva and he smirked.

“I didn’t do anything to your precious 007. At the end of the day, I know better than anyone that those you hire as agents, even your precious 00-agents, are replaceable. No. I was interested in something far more valuable,” Silva said, waving his hands. M’s eyes tracked the gun he was holding, but Q thought that she was probably too wounded to make a grab for it. 

“I want to _hurt_ you like you’ve hurt me, so I thought… what actually _matters_ to dear old Mother?” Silva made a show of tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Then it hit me!” He threw his arms up. Q jumped as the gun in his hand went off. The bullet hit the ceiling, causing a small shower of wooden fragments to fall. M winced away from them.

“What. Did. You. Do?” M repeated, more forcefully this time.

Q reached into his other pocket and pulled out the weapon he had brought with him. This gun had originally been intended for 005, but that was alright. If MI6 kept him on as their Quartermaster after all of this, then Q would be able to build her a new one. A _better_ one. Right now, he needed this particular weapon more than 005 ever would. He braced himself against the building and took aim.

“Your Quartermaster,” Silva said, and Q froze.

There was a long pause. M seemed to be biting her lip to keep from speaking first, and eventually Silva cracked.

“I know you favour Caregivers for agents because of their increased physical abilities, and you like baseline humans for your workers because they’re so boring,” Silva said, putting his hands on his hips. “You discriminate, dear old Mum! I thought I’d help you out by making a few permanent changes to your roster.”

M’s expression slowly turned horrified. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, but I did. You now have a Little on your team,” Silva said, sounding excited. Q felt sick. “Or at least you will once the transformation is complete. He’ll be young, I’m sure of it. Practically useless for your use, right? Whatever will MI6 do without a Quartermaster?” He cackled. “Your diamond-in-the-rough find will be a simple, _stupid_ baby –”

The recoil of the gun was harder than Q had expected. It slammed him backwards into the snow with enough force to leave him breathless. He sat there for a few seconds, stunned and hurting, before he realized that he might have missed and alerted Silva to the fact that he was there. Then he was able to scramble back up to his feet. He lurched to the window to look through.

The first thing he saw was Silva’s body and the blood pooling around it; approximately half of Silva’s head was gone, blown to bits.

The next thing he saw was Bond, striding up the centre aisle with a knife in his hand, and then M.

And then M saw _him_.

Or at least, she looked right at him.

Q ducked immediately, heart racing. His fingers were suddenly shaking badly enough that he could barely hold the gun. Though he had shot before – all management of MI6 were required to have their gun licenses regardless of whether they ever expected to be out on the field – he had never shot a human. It was a whole different experience to know that his gun had hit a person as opposed to a harmless target.

His stomach churned. He leaned over and vomited before he could stop himself. It left a hot, sour taste on the back of his tongue. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. There was no time to hang around. If M had seen him, and really hoped that she hadn’t, that meant Bond would be out here in no time. And Q couldn’t afford to get caught here. He shoved the gun into his waistband and turned to trace his steps back. With any luck, he’d make it back to the vehicle and be back in London before anyone was the wiser.

\--

“Are you alright?” Bond demanded, reaching M’s side. She was dangerously pale, and he could tell that her shirt was soaked with blood. He had the momentarily paralyzing thought that M could bleed out right here before anyone got to them.

But then M turned to him and said crisply, “It hurts, but I’ve had worse. Is MI6 on the way?”

“I put in a call,” Bond said, more relieved than he wanted to let on. Still, he stooped down and tore the bottom edge of Silva’s jacket before handing the material over. M immediately pressed it against her side, grimacing as she did so. Bond looked her over again and then frowned. He turned back to Silva’s body as a slow realization settled over him.

At first, he thought M had shot Silva. It would be just like the old bird to have hidden a weapon, waiting for Silva to get close. But she was unarmed right now. There was no gun in her hands and no gun nearby. Plus, a second glance at Silva revealed that the shot had to come from M’s right. Bond turned again, looking to their right, but there was nothing but shadows framing an empty window.

Another MI6 agent? Maybe even another 00-agent? Kincade? He regretted the fact that he had been at the wrong angle to see the window. But then again, even if he had been able to see, he’d been more focused on aiming for Silva. Part of M’s had been in the way, but Bond had been fairly confident he could hit Silva with the knife without hitting her… only now he didn’t have to.

“Did you see who shot Silva?” he asked, turning back to M. His alarm instantly increased when he saw that M had passed out, her head lolling back against the pew. An awful mixture of fear and adrenaline surged through him as he pressed his fingers to her throat, searching for a pulse. It seemed to take forever before he felt it: thin and thready but still present.

She was alive.

“James?” Kincade’s voice came from somewhere outside.

Bond closed his eyes briefly in relief before he straightened up. “In here. Kincade, there will be help arriving and I don’t think M should be moved right now. Could you bring them here as quickly as possible?” As he spoke, he stripped off his own jacket and carefully wrapped it around M’s shoulders. First aid wasn’t his strong point, but he knew that she needed to be kept warm.

“Got it!” Kincade replied.

“Thanks,” Bond said, no longer sure if Kincade could even hear him. He looked again at Silva’s body, but felt nothing but disgust. Silva may have thought himself a good agent, but in Bond’s opinion he had never had what it took to be a good 00-agent.

He sat down next to M, keeping himself tucked up against her in the hopes that his body warmth would help her as well. If the shooter hadn’t been Kincade, then when she woke up – he refused to let himself think about _if_ she woke up – he’d be able to get some answers out of her as to whether she’d seen anything. Right then, he was just content to sit beside her and be glad it was all over.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a little while before M came to, and Bond only noticed because he was watching her closely. Her eyelashes fluttered, but that was the only indication that she was awake or aware – well, of course it was. MI6 agents, particularly those who lived long enough to rise up through the ranks like M, learned early on that making a big scene when you woke up from being unconscious was not good.

“007,” M murmured without opening her eyes.

“I’m here,” Bond said instantly, uncertain as to whether she was lucid or not. There was movement outside, voices in the distance.

“I know that you’re there,” M said. Her voice was faint, but still had enough of an edge to bring a silver of a smile to Bond’s face.

“Help is coming,” he told her. It was a good sign that she was conscious, but he wasn’t going to feel like she was out of the woods until she was being tended to by MI6’s finest. He was still holding her hand, and her fingers were worryingly cold.

M’s eyes finally opened, training on him immediately. Her face was pale, but she was alert. She said, “You heard what Silva was saying, didn’t you?”

Bond pressed his lips together and said nothing for a moment. He had been trying _not_ to think about what Silva had said. Trying not to think of how ingratiatingly _proud_ that Silva had been. Hoping against hope that what Silva had said was wrong. Yet at the same time, his brain had kept supplying him with images of Q’s increasingly wane face before Bond left him…

“Yes,” Bond said at last, somewhat stiffly. After all, there was no point in denying it. M knew him too well for that, and his silence had spoken volumes already.

“I believe him,” M said quietly.

“You think that Q…” Bond couldn’t bring himself to finish that sentence, cut off by a swell of rage. He thought of Q, of that slender, sulky boffin that had met him in that art gallery, and felt sick. Q didn’t deserve that. No one did, but especially not someone as intelligent as Q. Being reduced to nothing more than a basic science experiment was appalling. 

“Yes,” M said. “He was here.”

“He was – Q shot Silva,” Bond realized. “Of course he did. I should have guessed…” He shook his head at himself. No one else had known that they were here, but Bond had specifically told Q where he and M were going so that Q could lay the right trap to lead Silva here. He didn’t know why – it wasn’t like he knew Q that well – but he was certain down to his bones that Q would not have told anyone else.

“I saw him through the window,” M confirmed.

Bond exhaled through his teeth and glanced over at said window. The angle had been wrong for him to see, but now it was easy for him to picture it. A thin, pale face peering through the window. Silva had been so involved in himself and M that he wouldn’t have noticed; he had planted himself between M and said window, unwittingly presenting himself as the perfect target for Q’s rage.

“I suppose he’s long gone,” Bond said, turning back to M.

“I believe so. He’ll already be on his way back to London,” M replied. “You need to go to him, 007.”

“What?” Bond said, startled.

M suddenly gripped his hand with surprising strength and leaned up so that their faces were close. “Right now, our Quartermaster is very frightened, very ill, and very close to a Little headspace for the first time if Silva is to be believed. You are a Caregiver.”

“I can’t –” Bond began, but, as always, M didn’t want to hear it.

“Yes, you can. You’re the only 00-agent who is also a Caregiver that has met Q. You rescued him; he saved me. You have a connection whether you want to acknowledge it or not.” M paused to suck in a breath of air. It sounded wet. “He needs you more than I do. Consider this your next mission if you must: you are to find and care for the Quartermaster until I give you orders otherwise. Understood?”

There was a lot that Bond could have said in the moment: M was close to dying and might have been delirious. In this state, someone else would be taking over her position at least temporarily. That person, whoever it was, might have a different mission in mind for Bond. And he had never actually taken care of a Little before, much less one as new to the whole thing as Q.

Yet none of those words made it up past Bond’s suddenly tight throat. The gravity of the moment, and all things that M wasn’t saying, rested heavily on his shoulders. Because damn it all, she was right. Q’s mental state was probably pretty precarious right now, all things considered. Things wouldn’t improve when he inevitably fell into a headspace for the first time. He hadn’t known that Q hadn’t met any of the other 00-agents, but in retrospect that wasn’t surprising given that a lot of the 00-agents weren’t even in London right now.

It even made sense that M was choosing a 00-agent for this ‘mission’. Who knew what other traps that Silva might have set? Especially since Silva had already proven that he had an interest in Q. The thought of an unwitting Q going back to London and walking right into another trap made Bond clench his jaw with a renewed flash of protectiveness. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

“Understood,” he said at last, giving M a sharp nod.

She relaxed, a small smile crossing her face. “Good, I knew you’d see sanity,” she said with satisfaction, and there was a smart remark on the tip of Bond’s tongue that he never got the chance to say.

The outer doors opened and Kincade entered with a bunch of MI6 operatives two steps behind him. The chapel, which had only been built to comfortably house about twenty people, suddenly felt overly cramped. Bond was hustled away from M in a matter of seconds as three field doctors descended on her. He lost sight of M momentarily and hovered, awkward and uncertain, until he saw her again.

She was staring at him. ‘Go’, she mouthed, even as a doctor slipped an oxygen mask over her face.

Right. Bond turned on his heel, heedless of the people who were trying to get his attention, and marched through the doors. It was comforting to see so all the people milling around outside. The MI6 agents would take care of Silva’s remaining men, he knew, and there was nothing he could do to help M now even if he wanted to. He would only get in Medical’s way.

“I need to get back to London immediately,” Bond declared, catching someone by the arm.

The agent blinked at him, opened her mouth, looked Bond up and down, then closed her mouth. She nodded instead and pointed to one of the nearby helicopters, saying, “They were transport only. You could hitch a ride back on that one.”

“Thank you,” Bond said, releasing her arm and making his way over to the helicopter in question. No one argued with him as he swung himself up and inside, which was just as well. He wasn’t in the mood for an argument.

It took about fifteen minutes for the helicopter to take off. Bond stared out the window as they rose, realizing that the devastation had been worse than he’d realized. There was basically nothing left of Skyfall Lodge now. He couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. What remained was still smoking, and it would probably be a long time before the wreckage could be safely cleared away and anything rebuilt.

That was if Bond _wanted_ it to be rebuilt.

He pondered that much of the way back to London. It had been years since he’d gone back to Skyfall. The old place had held nothing but memories he would much rather not have to think about. But now the house itself was gone. It would be a shame to let the land go to waste, since it really was a picturesque place. He supposed he could always sell it and let someone else do what they wanted with it, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to do that either.

It wasn’t something he could decide when things were so fresh, he realized as the helicopter touched down on an MI6-designated landing pad. He’d need to think it over and possibly even revisit the place. Alec might agree to go with him if he chose to do that. Having Alec around would go a long way towards making the whole thing easier to bear.

“Bond! How’s M?” Tanner was leaning into the helicopter before the door was fully open, and Bond dismissed all thoughts of Skyfall to respond.

“Steady, last I heard. They’re transporting her back here,” Bond said, getting up. He stepped down out of the helicopter and saw that Moneypenny and Mallory were there too. He wondered where Q was. Would it have been unusual for MI6’s Quartermaster to have joined them?

“Do they think she’ll be alright?” Moneypenny asked.

Bond shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine at this point,” he said, but he privately thought that M was much too stubborn to just give in and die like that. With Silva having died in his attempt to kill her, M would be determined to live on.

All three of them looked troubled. Clearly, they’d been hoping that he would have some miraculous news for them. Sadly, Bond didn’t. Though the medics had managed to stabilize M, she would probably need emergency surgery as soon as she got to wherever they were taking him – a town in Scotland, most likely, until she could be safely transported back to England. How she faired would depend on that surgery.

“Where’s Q?” he asked Moneypenny as Tanner and Mallory turned away, talking in low tones.

Moneypenny seemed surprised by the question but answered readily. “You didn’t know? Well, of course you wouldn’t. He’s been suspended.”

“What?!” Bond said, possibly a little too loud judging by how Tanner looked over at them.

“He disappeared,” said Moneypenny. “No one knew where’d he gone for over 24 hours. R had to step up and try to deal with the damage left after Silva’s infiltration. Mallory was fit to be tied. And then when Q returned, he wouldn’t tell anyone where he’d been…” She shrugged helplessly. “He was suspended for a week pending an investigation, but it may be longer than that if M doesn’t make it.”

“Bloody hell…” Bond muttered. This was the last thing they needed. If Q hadn’t been on the edge of a breakdown before, then he surely was now. 

“Why, what’s wrong?” Moneypenny asked.

“Do you know where Q lives?” Bond asked without answering him.

“Yes…” she said slowly, confused.

They looked at each other for a long moment. Bond was not a man who begged for anything, but he came as close to it in those few seconds as he ever had.

Still confused, she relented and told him Q’s address.

“Thank you,” said Bond. He broke away from Moneypenny and jogged over to the door.

“007, where are you going?” Mallory called.

“I have work to do,” Bond said, not stopping.

“007! Come back here!”

Bond ignored him – let Mallory suspend him, he didn’t care – and made his way through the door and to the lift. Once on the street, he hailed a taxi and told the driver Q’s address. It actually wasn’t that far away from the landing pad, maybe a fifteen-minute drive. The instant the car stopped, Bond launched himself out and jogged over to Q’s building. He took the dozen flights of stairs at a run and finally found himself outside Q’s door. He knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again. Harder this time.

Nothing.

“Q, I’m not going away. Open the goddamn door,” Bond snapped, losing his patience. “I know what happened to you. M sent me here. You might as well let me in, or I’ll scale the bloody building if I have to.”

The door clicked open.


	6. Chapter 6

The early morning light in his face woke Bond from what had been a sound sleep. Grumbling, he rolled over on his side and buried his face in the pillow. A light thump on the bed told him that his changed state of consciousness had been noticed. He tried to ignore the intruder, but within a few seconds there was something batting at his hair. It was rather annoying.

“You’re annoying,” he said out loud, lifting his head. Bright green eyes blinked at him, undeterred by the comment, before the paw was back and batting at his nose.

Bond sighed and pushed the cat away, though of course she didn’t go far. He sat up and glanced at the window, realizing that, at some point during the night, one of Q’s cats must have been playing around with the curtains. That was the reason for his rude sunlit awakening. He shot a scowl at the cat and got out of bed to open the curtains fully – there was no way he’d be able to go back to sleep now that he was up.

“This is why I don’t have pets,” he muttered, though there was no real ire in his tone. Q’s cats – he had two of them, once of which was still wary around him – were admittedly cute as far as cats went, and Bond was suspecting more and more that he was going to need to get used to them.

His phone beeped. He turned to his nightstand and glanced at the screen, reading the message quickly; it was as he expected, and meant that both he and Q needed to get moving. Bond dressed quickly, made the bed, and then followed the cat out into the hallway. The door to Q’s room was shut, and Bond went to knock before he paused. Should he knock?

The last couple weeks had been the most relaxing time that Bond had had in years. Things had been rough going at first as Q struggled to adapt to what Silva had done to him. There had been a lot of what Bond could only describe as temper tantrums and crying fits, not that he blamed Q at all for the severity of those reactions: what had happened to Q _wasn’t_ fair, plain and simple, and he had every right to scream at the world.

But it seemed like they had finally fallen into a little bit of a routine over the past couple of days, and, if Bond were being honest with himself as he so rarely was, he had to admit that he had enjoyed taking care of Q. He had never had a Little of his own before and had never seriously considered that he might have one given the dangerous nature of his job, but the time he’d spent with Q was quickly changing that.

He just didn’t know how Q felt about it, and he felt that it should be Q who decided since Q was the one who’d been unfairly thrust into the position of a Little. Bond was certain that Q would not want the knowledge of what happened to him to be widespread, and he was more than willing to keep quiet about it all – his position as a 00-agent certainly made him good at keeping secrets, after all.

However, he’d also started to wonder if Q might prefer the services of a professional Caregiver. Someone that he could pay to keep discrete. It was how some Littles chose to handle those needs, and Bond wouldn’t have been surprised if Q had decided to do that too.

The door suddenly swung open, stopping Bond’s trail of thought before it could go any further. Bond found himself blinking at Q, much as the cat had blinked him a few minutes ago. Considering that it was a beautiful morning, and they were due to go back to work today, Q did not look happy. If anything, he looked downright miserable. That sad face hit Bond in just the right away and he was pulling Q into a hug before he thought twice about it.

“What’s wrong?” Bond asked, keeping his voice gentle. Q got overwhelmed easily now, he’d noticed. It would probably take time for Q to figure out how to keep his much more volatile emotions under control.

“Nothing,” Q mumbled, but that was so transparently a lie that Bond couldn’t help smiling.

“Q, I thought we established that you’re not supposed to lie to me,” he said.

Q sighed. “I’m just – I don’t know if I can do this,” he admitted, sounding young and scared. That sort of voice brought protective instincts that Bond hadn’t even known he possessed roaring to the surface. He wanted to tear down whatever made Q act that way.

It was a realization that stopped him from responding for a few seconds: that perhaps Bond had a bit of figuring out to do of his own when it came to his emotions. Q wouldn’t think it was appropriate if Bond lost his temper and mauled the first person who dared to make Q upset after they returned to MI6, especially since they were planning to act like nothing had really changed.

“You can definitely do this. You’re MI6’s Quartermaster,” Bond said firmly once he’d wrestled his flailing instincts under control. Even from her hospital bed, M had made it extremely clear that she wanted Q back. She’d overturned Q’s suspension early on – which Bond assumed hadn’t been too difficult, given that Q had been thrown right back into things right after being kidnapped without even a visit to Medical.

Besides, MI6 really did need the best Quartermaster they could get, and that was without a doubt Q. No one could argue against that.

“But what if they find out?” Q asked, an audible quiver to his voice.

Bond hugged him tighter. “ _If_ anyone finds out, we’ll deal with that when it happens. But we have a plan in place to avoid that. M’s already agreed to keep me around for a few weeks to give you time to adjust. We’re both at half days for the time being. We can do this,” he said soothingly. He’d never looked forward to so much down time before, but that was what Q did to him.

“Right. You’re right,” Q said quietly, but he didn’t let go of Bond. Which was fine with Bond: he was perfectly content to stand there and hug Q for as long as Q needed him to. There was a certain kind of peace that he had never experienced before, but which seemed to come hand-in-hand with having a Little. 

Or maybe that was just the effect Q had on him, Bond didn’t know. Frankly, he didn’t care. Time off between missions used to leave him feeling restless, but now he had someone to focus all of his instincts on. Much as he hated to admit it, M had been right to send him after Q: the two of them were very well-matched, with Q’s new headspace falling in just the right age range for Bond.

“Okay.” Q pulled away at last, rubbing a quick hand over his eyes that Bond pretended not to see. 

“Do you want help?” he asked, putting a hand on Q’s shoulder to keep contact between them. He thought Q might say no and was prepared to offer to make breakfast instead.

But Q nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground, so Bond accompanied him into his bedroom instead. There was a bunch of clothing on Q’s bed, and Bond quickly realized that Q had been trying to figure out what to wear today. That was a little unusual, given that Q seemed to wearing trousers, a button-up shirt, tie, and sweater-vest to work each day.

“You don’t like your clothing anymore?” Bond asked, wondering if they had the time for a quick shopping trip. They’d be late, but that would hardly be the first time…

“I’m worried it’ll show,” Q mumbled.

“It?” Bond said cluelessly before it dawned on him what Q meant. The uncertainty surrounding his bowel and bladder had perhaps been the most difficult change for Q to come to grips with. He’d refused to wear nappies for a couple of days before a series of accidents had left him in tears and accepting in the inevitable, but it was still a slow progress. He refused to let Bond change him, instead taking care of himself.

Bond could accept that for now. He suspected – hoped – it would change in the future, but he understood that this was a really hard thing for Q to work through. The loss of bodily autonomy was never easy for anyone to accept, and it was particularly difficult for Q given that it had been forced on him. 

“Put your trousers on and let me see,” said Bond, picking up the nearest pair and handing them over. Q hauled them on, fastening the buttons with trembling fingers. Then he spread his hands and looked at Bond.

“I feel like it’s noticeable,” he said worriedly.

Bond said nothing, instead looking at Q critically. It seemed as though Q didn’t like wearing his clothing too tight, which was a huge benefit right now. Had the cut of the trousers been tight, Q would have been right. However, the trousers were just loose enough to hide the slight puffiness of the nappy underneath. However, he could appreciate why Q felt self-conscious.

“I don’t see anything, so I don’t think anyone else will either. But if it worries you, we could pick up some pull-ups. They’re thinner,” Bond said at last. “You’d just have to be a lot more conscious of going to the bathroom regularly. No more sitting at your desk, lost in a work binge for hours, because a pull-up wouldn’t be able to contain a major accident.”

Q frowned, letting his arms fall to his sides. “I’ll think about it.”

“Okay,” Bond said, deciding not to push him. He glanced at the remaining clothing and picked up a grey button-up, blue tie, and grey-and-blue sweater vest. They were all soft to the touch and would hopefully Q some comfort on what was guaranteed to be a long, stressful day.

Q finished dressing and looked at Bond for approval. Bond looked him up and down, even walking around him in a circle, before giving a nod. By now, the worst of Q’s wounds from his time in Silva’s hands had healed. There was still some fading bruising on his face, but only if you knew where to look. Most people would be none the wiser and would only see the highly polished Quartermaster returning to MI6 after some much-needed vacation time.

“You look great. It’s going to be okay. Most of the focus today will be on M’s return anyway,” Bond told him.

“I didn’t think of that.” Q visibly relaxed as that realization sank in, even offering Bond a smile. “Thanks for putting up with me. I know I’m a pain.”

“You’re not a pain. I told you before, taking care of you is soothing. More so than I expected. And M knew it, damn her.” Bond shook his head exaggeratedly, pleased when Q’s smile widened.

“I promise not to tell her how much you enjoy it,” Q said.

“I’d appreciate that. Now, come on. I don’t care if I’m late, but I imagine you do,” Bond said, smiling when Q gave an alarmed squeak at the time and flew out of the room. He grabbed Q’s forgotten bag and followed.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).


End file.
